


Humming

by aBarlowRose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ficlet, Grumpy John Watson, Humming, Husbands, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Music, No Dialogue, Oblivious Sherlock Holmes, One Shot, Science Experiments, Sherlock's Violin, Short, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 04:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16612034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aBarlowRose/pseuds/aBarlowRose
Summary: John is adamant that Sherlock is the musical one.





	Humming

John is adamant that Sherlock is the musical one.  

He likes to grab Sherlock’s hands and do things to each of the dextrous, elegant fingers to remind his husband of the fact, and Sherlock just huffs and concedes.

But Sherlock knows differently.  He has never seen John play an instrument or even sing along with the radio, but he has observed the way John stills whenever Sherlock touches his bow to the strings of his Stradivarius.  He can see the pulse on John’s neck flutter, and he watches it ease again as he plays long, sweet notes.  John is used to Sherlock’s songs, but he doesn’t seem to notice how they've changed since he first met the detective.  If he does know that the songs now are for him, he doesn’t tell.

One night, John comes home to find Sherlock amidst a cloud of smoke, laughing at some chemical creation he has made, and oblivious to the acrid air that makes John cough and choke.  Sherlock opens a window, grinning all the time, but when the apartment stills smells of old fish and scalded cooking pots at bedtime, John shakes his head in disgust and crawls into bed with his back turned.

Sherlock stands studying him for several minutes, but the muscles in John’s back do not ease, and he knows he has made a mistake.  He reaches out to touch John’s shoulder but draws his hand back as he catches sight of his fingers, the left knuckles smudged with soot.  He looks at his hands and then to the violin propped near the door.  He walks quietly to it and picks it up.

For a moment, he stands, the bow poised over the strings; then he draws a long, soft, wavering note that feels like it comes from the center of his stomach.  He follows it with another and another, until a theme emerges, something like a lullaby his mother may have sung.  He plays it again and again, variations and decorations emerging gently, his movements growing slower and softer as he watches John’s back.  Eventually the muscles slacken, and Sherlock is playing so quietly that he can hear the deep cadence of sleep in John’s lungs.  He smiles slightly then, and climbs into bed.

In the morning, Sherlock awakes to find himself alone in bed, the only smell that of black tea and eggs.  He rises and leaves the bedroom, peering blearily ahead of him toward the kitchen.  He notes John’s shape and is about to speak when he stops.  Sherlock, standing in the shadows of the kitchen doorway, listens carefully through the buzz of the lights and the sizzle of the frying eggs, and yes, there it is again, a soft sound, a melody, something very like a lullaby.  John is humming quietly to himself.

And Sherlock knows he is not the only musical one in 221b Baker Street.

**Author's Note:**

> You know the smell of burning plastic when your charger gives up the ghost? That's what it smelled like. Honestly, Sherlock.
> 
> Please comment any tw/cw tags you'd like to see applied.


End file.
